This Good Life

It’s four in the morning and I’m turning in my bed-
I wish I had a dream or a nightmare in my head,
So I drop my imagination and get some sleeping done
Now it’s five in the morning and I’m wishing it was one.
-M. Ward, Four Hours in Washington

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing; 
heal me, O Lord, for my bones are troubled. 
-David, king of ancient Israel, Psalm 6:2



I miss my pre-fibro body. I miss my pre-fibro brain. I miss my pre-fibro activity level. I guess I’ll always be mourning that, huh? Who wouldn’t miss feeling less pain, less aches, less fatigue? It’s hard to hang on to perspective. That things are still good and full of hope, in spite of my physical circumstances, which flavor every part of life. How to lean past this pain? How to embrace my body as it is? How to live well day by day? There are so many rough things I can focus on, so many hard things to which my attention is naturally drawn. 

So. 

The pain is bad. 

The pain is real. 

All of my feelings are real and true. 

But. 

There are good things still. And good things have come into light because of my health. 

My love and I enjoying a beachly stroll in between naps. 

My marriage has not suffered-in fact; the love we have has grown: strong and rooted and deep. It’s very beautiful. Ben’s care for me is practical and emotional and kind and generous and gentle. There are many times where I cry and cry and cry and he just holds me and strokes my hair and tells me it’s ok to cry, ok to feel, ok to be hurting, and it’s not my fault, that he loves me more than ever. This is very beautiful and true. 

The friendships I have are also beautiful. The ones who have come alongside me and Ben, the ones who come over and plop on the couch with me. They go out to dinner with us when I can manage it. They text me and email me and ask how I’m doing, and they really want to know. They believe me. That is huge. 

Being a Christian is different now. It’s also growing deep roots. I keep having to test it against my new circumstances. And it’s ringing true. Christianity is ringing hard, yes, but so true. I am finding that all the Psalms about asking God to rescue, to sweep down out of the sky and banish all the enemies—I can relate so much more. I am finding that crying aloud to this God who sees all my desperate hours-asking questions, voicing doubts, always comes full circle to thankfulness and peace. It is becoming more and more true to me that physicality and health and circumstances can be ripped away in a flash, but that the love of God is true. That the love of His people is true. That He allows others to be His hands and feet to me. 

God cares about my health, yes—He cares about this body He created. He doesn’t want me to be sick or in pain. This is not part of His plan. But I am also learning the hard lessons of His timing vs. my timing; how His very mysterious ways are not my ways—how there are times when He doesn’t appear until the dawn. How His silence is real sometimes, and I’m just not going to get it, how I’m just not going to get this Christianity thing. But it still makes the most sense to me in this crazy, messed up world. I’m learning that He can really use the broken, the wounded, the used-up, the sick. That His strength in our weakness is actually enough, and actually full of grace. Even when we think we’re alone and that prayer is just talking to the ceiling, He really is there, too. This relationship is different than any other—to worship and follow an invisible God is full of peril and doubt and trust and faith. 

The Good Life is looking much different than the one I imagined or expected. It really is hanging on tight to joy, and looking for the brightness in the dark. Once I begin to accept my smallness brought on by ill health and reduced pride, I can see how big and beautiful and large this life is. How good this life is.